


Words

by cumberbatchedinthetardis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sleepy John, argument
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-06
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-12 00:24:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2088720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberbatchedinthetardis/pseuds/cumberbatchedinthetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anderson had said a few choice words, Sherlock said a few  “not good” things in retaliation, John hadn't liked it, they both went their separate ways when they walked into 221b; John went to his room, Sherlock stayed in the lounge. He doesn't understand why John's acting this way. They were just words, after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words

They had nothing to say to each other. Anderson had said a few choice words, Sherlock said a few  “not good” things in retaliation, John hadn’t liked it, they both went their separate ways when they walked into 221B; John went to his room, Sherlock stayed in the lounge, plopping dramatically into his chair. He doesn’t understand why John’s acting this way. They were just words, after all.

A couple minutes passed by and John came back down and went straight into the kitchen. Sherlock heard the kettle turn on, the clank of glasses banging against each other as John grabbed not one, but two from the cupboard and practically slammed them down onto the counter as he waited for the water to boil, and the clicking of fingernails against the counter.

Sherlock listened to the clicking, losing focus. He had never heard such an annoying sound in his entire life (other than Anderson’s inane prattling, of course). It had to stop and immediately if he were to keep an ounce of whatever sanity he had left.

He rose out of his chair and walked into the kitchen and just stood there, watching John drum his fingers on the countertop.

“John,” he said, “As much as you’d like to think your incessant tapping is helping, _it’s not._ Now if you’d be so kind as to sto—“

John whirled around, curling his left hand into a fist in a split second and landed a solid punch to the right side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock stumbled back into the doorway, landing on his rear, and touched his cheek. 

“Shut up, Sherlock. Just shut it. As much as _you’d_ like to think your voice isn’t actually all that fantastic right this second. As a matter of fact, it’s really grating on my nerves right now. So yes, shut up, go sit and sulk—oh don’t give me that look, that’s exactly what you were doing when I came back down, and I will bring your tea to you and then I’m going to bed. Do not bother me unless it’s life or death in this flat. I don’t care about if someone’s boyfriend is cheating on them or even if it’s a bloody murder outside of this flat. _Shut up, I’m not done._ If I so much as hear one pluck of that violin, I will break it to pieces. Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe the tea’s done.” John, chest heaving, leaned back and turned back to the kettle, poured each cup, waited for the tea to steep, and then stepped around Sherlock’s still-fallen form to set his cup on the table next to Sherlock’s chair before practically downing his own cup in one swig and making his way back up to his room.

Sherlock sat there, for once not knowing what to say. Slowly, he got to his feet and went to sit, like John told him to do, and sipped his tea slowly. He didn’t brood. He just sat there and drank his tea.

It wasn’t until he heard the sound of John’s soft snoring that he decided it was safe to move. He got up slowly and crept up the stairs to John’s room. He stood in the doorway and stared.

John’s back was to the door, the blankets pulled up around his neck with his left arm cradling his head. Sherlock took one step into the room and the floor creaked. He paused mid-step and John snuffled, turned over onto his back, smacked his lips a couple of times, and went back to snoring.

Sherlock sighed quietly, closed his eyes and took another step. This time, the floor stayed silent. He got all the way to John’s bedside without incident. He stayed there, just staring. How could someone look so peaceful in sleep?

Sherlock went to step away, make his way back downstairs, but just as he turned, a hand shot out and grabbed his.

“Sorry, I just—“ Sherlock started, beginning to turn back around.

“Shut up, Sherlock,” John’s voice was still hoarse from sleep. He brought his free hand up to wipe his eyes and looked at Sherlock.

“Okay, sorry. I didn’t mean to—“

_“Sherlock.”_

Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air before he shut it. John’s hand still held his firmly.

“Why are you in my room?” John asked after a few seconds.

“I—“ Why _was_ he in John’s room?

John let go of Sherlock’s hand and rose into a sitting position. The blankets fell away to expose John’s bare torso. Sherlock had seen it before; after John had finished showering and his bathrobe hadn’t been tied all the way, that one time John was late for his boring job at the clinic and he’d forgotten to take his clothes to his room after he’d folded them neatly with military precision, just to name a few. So why did Sherlock’s mouth suddenly go dry?

“Well, this is a first. Sherlock Holmes, speechless. Look,” John yawned and rubbed his eyes again, still trying to wake up completely. “I’m sorry about earlier. I shouldn’t have said those things. I was just angry and somewhat hurt, but you have to understand. You can’t just go around spouting off things to Anderson that have to do with my personal life. You may not care, but I do. I don’t want everyone to know what I had for dinner or that my girlfriend just happened to break up with me a few hours previous because she thought I had _problems_ ,” he air-quoted, “no matter what he says. You wouldn’t want people to know that you keep a hoard of dresses in your closet, would you?”

Sherlock looked at John, “Irrelevant. Your blog has pretty much devastated any chance of any sort of privacy, wouldn’t you think?”

John shook his head, “No, I only post cases, nothing about our personal life. If I do post anything of the sort, it’s vague, no details. So don’t you give me that,” He flattened his palms against the mattress and tried again. “Look, just don’t do it again, Sherlock, it was wrong, no matter what you think. I’m not going to post anything personal on my blog about you if you promise to do the same.”

“I don’t have a blog, though.”

John huffed and rubbed his eyes again, “You know what I mean. Just don’t go around telling everyone about my personal life.”

“Fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to make his way downstairs.

“Oh, and Sherlock?”

Sherlock stopped, “Yes?”

“I didn’t really mean I’d break your violin if you’d started playing.”

“I know,” he smiled.

“Go to bed,” John laughed, already slipping back under the covers.

When Sherlock stepped back into the sitting room, he looked at his violin case before picking it up and slowly opening it. He plucked a few strings before he grabbed the bow and started playing John’s favourite.

At first, John wasn’t paying attention to what Sherlock was playing. It was something calm and soft. Nothing at all like what Sherlock usually played while he was thinking. Note after beautiful note floated up the stairs, echoing in the small space. A couple minutes passed and yet John was still listening raptly. He’d heard it before. At least, he thought he did. After another two minutes of trying to figure it out, he gave up and went downstairs to watch Sherlock play.

Just as he sat down, the speed picked up and Sherlock’s fingers were dancing across the neck, creating a quicker pace and making the music sound anxious now. After a few more minutes of the frantic music, Sherlock paused for a couple of seconds, whipping his bow off the instrument dramatically, then placed the bow back on the violin and John’s jaw fell open.

There were no words for how beautiful it sounded as it echoed and reverberated throughout the flat, creating a sort of calm bubble for the both of them. John sat there and focused on breathing instead of asking Sherlock what it was he had decided to play for the night.

Countless minutes passed as Sherlock continued to play before he stopped and went to put his violin up. When he turned back around, he noticed John sitting in his chair, eyes closed. He cleared his throat and John’s eyes opened slowly.

“Have you ever played that before?”

Sherlock shrugged, “I play it whenever you’ve had a nightmare. It seems to calm you down enough so you can fall back asleep without trouble.”

“I—“ John coughed. “Thank you.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t even think Sherlock cared, let alone enough to even think of anything like that.

Sherlock turned back around and opened the case before setting the violin in it and carefully shutting it.


End file.
